


A Fight For the Prize

by Etrius_Lloyd



Category: Assassin's Creed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:02:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etrius_Lloyd/pseuds/Etrius_Lloyd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got inspiration for this piece from the many hours of Assassin's Creed multiplayer that I enjoyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fight For the Prize

Every day at sunrise, the city square of Florence becomes a battlefield. A battle raging between the merchants that form the market, each of them luring customers with their booming voices and wide smiles. Carpets from Venice, medicines from Europe, art from France. Every day is different but the battlefield remains unchanged.

Today Vincenzo Agosto walks the market, his eyes greedily sliding over the many exotic items that are displayed. His flamboyant robes, bushy beard, round belly, and armed guards are a familiar sight around here. Wealthy, powerful, and addicted to luxury, Vincenzo visits the market every day, spending his wealth on anything that catches his eye.

But today is different.

Somewhere in the crowd a pair of piercing green eyes watch him carefully, observing his every move, not blinking once. Vincenzo knows not of this and strikes a haggle with a merchant, lured by Persian satin which seduced him with its vivid array of colors.

Something shifts in the crowds, drawing closer, seen by all yet completely invisible. It draws closer to Vincenzo, eyes pinned to his back, but he notices nothing. His attention is required elsewhere; surely the merchant can lower his price by at least 30 florins!

But the market is home to more than just merchant. Gypsies, acrobats, and performers are plenty here. Their wild and astounding feats of strength, skill, and magic entrance the minds of dozens. After all, whose heart would not skip a beat when they witness men swallowing daggers and swords unharmed, play and dance with wild bears, or retch scorching fire into the air?

A wave of delighted and astounded gasps rises up from the crowd when a column of fire burst from the performer’s mouth, and distracts Vincenzo for a moment. He turns around to inspect the source of the commotion, but finds himself staring into a pair of emerald eyes instead.

The eyes belong to a man clad in expensive crimson cloth, with several pieces of steel armor strapped to his body. His ebony hood darkens and hides his face but fails to do the same for the murderous intent that coldly pours out of those eyes.

Assassin.

The word starts as a whisper in his mind, but grows with every heartbeat, swelling up to a scream at the top of his lungs. “Assassin! Guards, help me!” Vincenzo panics and jumps behind his guards. The startled crowd disperses and a circle is formed, enclosing Vincenzo and his guards, and the crimson-clad man.

But before the first two guards can draw their blades the assassin reaches behind his back and conjures up a pair of throwing knifes which he lets loose and buries deep in the eye and throat of the guards.

Two men dead in the time it takes a heart to beat yet the third guard rushes forward, sword raised for the sole purpose of cleaving a skull. But in a battle of blades speed will always triumph. With as little effort and motion as possible the assassin leans out of the path of the blade and arcs a dagger through the air, slicing open the guards throat in one fluid motion.

Without interrupting his momentum the hooded man charges and attempts to thrust his dagger into the face of the final guard who manages to parry the blow. But in that brief, vulnerable moment in which the guard pushes the dagger out the way, the assassin reveals a thick, steel gauntlet which envelops his left hand and smashes it into the man's face

The guard is unconscious even before he crashes into the stall, his face broken and blooded. Shocked, the crowd recoils at this brutal display of violence but they do not flee, nor did they come to Vincenzo’s aid, who now stands with no-one between him and the assassin.

Slowly the killer turns his head and looks at Vincenzo from over his shoulder, the blood on his dagger still warm.

And Vincenzo runs for his life.

His own panicked breathing haunts him through the streets, through the curious crowds. Hundreds see him run, see his fear, but none aid him. He is alone in the sea of people. Vincenzo is tired quickly. He never ran before, he never had to, but he cannot stop, he will die if he stops.

Is he still behind him? Is he chasing still? Is he far behind or already breathing down his neck, dagger ready to plunge itself deep in his flesh? Vincenzo dares not to look behind, afraid it would slow him down.

Suddenly something flashes past his ear. The throwing knife narrowly misses his head and plants itself in the wooden frame of a front door. Vincenzo cries out his fright and dashes into a side alley, away from the dagger, and keeps running still.

Until he is faced with solid wall of the dead end.

If terror could make a man fly then Vincenzo would sprout wings and take flight right there and then. But no such thing. His feet stay on the ground and he remains very much trapped. Vincenzo spins around and finds the hooded figure standing in the shadow of the alley, watching him as if he had been standing there for hours.

“Wait! I have money! Chests full! Name your prize!” Vincenzo’s heart dances in his throat, and it hurts just to breathe. But his offer falls on deaf ears, and the assassin approaches, slowly, careless; he knows he will not be disturbed.

The dagger on his hand still glistens with blood. It’s a cruel dagger: long, curved and barbed, meant for leaving wounds that never heal.

“I’ll pay you anything! Please! I-I’ll… pay. Please…” The unmoving wall presses against his back and an incredible feeling of finality begins to seep into the back of his mind. He is going to die here, alone in this Godforsaken alley.

But a soft creak sounds high above his head briefly interrupts his final thoughts, and the assassin raises his hooded head to look at whatever made the sound. Not a moment later something whistles through the air, something fast and sharp. The man in crimson manages to raise his gauntlet just in time, and a volley of sparks shoot up from where it clashes with steel.

There is a thud when the razor sharp throwing star plants itself in the solid stone wall, and the assassin reaches for the gash on his arm, hissing.

“What’s this? Competition?” An amused, honey-like voice sounds from up high, and Vincenzo raises his eyes to the sky. He finds a woman standing on the rooftop. Her skin is as dark as ebony wood, her hair is short and wild, and she is as beautiful as a star-filed night.

But her beauty confuses Vincenzo. Beautiful women didn’t usually walk around in leather corsets with a dozen throwing stars tied to their sides, nor did they wear knee-high boots with exposed thighs, and tattoos on their shoulders.

“Nice hood!” she says, showing them a grin.

“Do not get between me and my prey, woman!” the assassin snarls back to her. His voice is surprisingly soft and normal; Vincenzo had imagined him to have a cruel and cold voice.

“Ooh, scary… But he is my prey now, boy. 2000 Florins for his blood and pendant! Now shoo!”

The hooded man snarls and storms at Vincenzo, dagger at the ready. Vincenzo screams and shields his face, waiting for the killing strike. But the black woman lets loose a volley of throwing stars, forcing the man to break off to dodge.

From her hips the woman unsheathes a pair of silver katars and jumps down. For a moment Vincenzo thinks she’ll engage the hooded man, allowing him time to flee, but her silver blades head for him. But right before she can strike a hand closes around his collar and pulls him back.

Vincenzo cannot keep himself on his feet and he falls just as her blades drive themselves in the ground. Suddenly the man is on top of him, dagger raised high, eager to pierce his heart. Yet again he must disengage and block her stars with his gauntlet, and she uses his moment of weakness to kick him off Vincenzo.

There is a bright flash and a bang, and the woman screams when the grenade releases its blinding light in her face. Vincenzo is now free and manages to stumble back on his feet just in time to see both assassins charge him from both sides, weapons raised and fire in their eyes. There isn’t even time to scream.

But he is not dead yet. Death counters death when both assassins fight both each other while trying to keep the other from killing their prey. The woman lets loose a flurry of lightning fast stabs which the man parries in rapid succession using his gauntlet. He then tries to rip open Vincenzo’s throat with his dagger but is blocked by her blade, and has to answer for the failed attack with a kick to his gut.

Vincenzo is pulled and dragged around, attacked and protected, locked between a duel of pride and skill. Neither side can advance but won't disengage. Their attacks become faster and sharper but draw no blood.

Sparks shower Vincenzo when her blade is caught by his gauntlet, stopping it mid-thrust, inches away from his face. Next moment the assassin’s curved dagger is raised high, ready to be plunged deep into Vincenzo’s flesh, but then her blade splits open, sudden and instantly, parting like a pair of scissors, revealing the third blade.

The assassin’s hand is forced open by the transformation, and it forces him to change his target and jab his weapon between the scissors blades of the katar, pushing it back. The second blade is deflected by a steel punch, and the score remains unsettled.

Though his mind is flooded by with panic, Vincenzo unknowingly wonders which one of these master fighters will end his life and spill his blood. The dark-skinned prowler’s attacks were both fast and ferocious, coming at him as a seemingly unending flurry of blows, yet the hooded assassin manages to block and intercept every single one of them, switching from defense to offense in a heartbeat.

But the battle suddenly shifts when the assassin lets go of his dagger and grabs hold of both of her wrists, forcing open her defense long enough to ram his knee into her stomach. A surprised gasp is forced out of the prowler’s lungs and she is sent flying by the sheer force of the blow.

So is it you after all? Vincenzo thinks as his eyes witness how the man in crimson picks up his dagger—that cruel, curved, barbed dagger—and raises it up high. There are no final words, no flashy finish, just a single, powerful stab. Vincenzo does not see the blade shimmer, no, he gazes into the man’s cold, green eyes and waits.

That’s when the assassin’s legs give away from under him.

Without warning or reason he falls down as if someone had stolen all the bones from his legs.

“Don’t worry. It is only a minor paralysis poison. I am surprised you lasted this long, though.” The ever-amused smile of the night-skinned prowler drifts over Vincenzo’s shoulder. Slowly she rises to her feet while patting the dirt from her hips. “Phoe.” She cringes softly, holding her hand to her belly. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you never to strike a lady?”

“You viper!” the man snarls, trying fruitlessly to stand again. He reaches for his arm, there where her throwing star had cut his flesh.

“Now now, let’s be nice,” she smirks, walking up to Vincenzo with a coy sway in her hips. With a metallic snap her katars close again, forming single, lethal blades once more.

“Please…” Vincenzo pleads, recoiling softly. He is not ready yet, not ready for death, for her. Does she not know it is not his time yet?

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” She grins one last time and strikes.

She is fast, very fast; Vincenzo can hardly follow her movements. A white-hot stab of pain cuts through his heart but it doesn’t last long. The world topples over but the ground is soft, and something warms begins to spread across his chest. The sky goes dim and the sun turns black, and Vincenzo Agosto dies.

 

With a swift and clean strike the prowler pierces the arms dealer’s heart and fulfills her contract. From his body she takes his pendant as proof as instructed, and slips it between her breasts.

The crimson-clad assassin is still down on the ground but were his eyes daggers she would have joined the corpse on the floor.

“Oh don’t give me that look,” she scoffs, wiping the blood from her weapons. “Sore losing is not attractive.” With the tip of her blade she lifts the hood from his head and exposes his face. “Oooh… Good thing you make up for that.”

Wavy strands of golden hair fall down a face that would be flawless if not for the small scar that cuts the jaw line on the left side of his face. “What’s your name, woman?”

She ponders and considers for a moment, but then: “Selene.”

“Selene, I am Avo, and I will hunt you down for this.”

Slowly, sensually, Selene gets down on one knee and breathes her words on his lips. “You know, I might just let you find me, Avo.” And with a last wink and smile she turns around and takes to the sky, climbing the walls with such speed and agility that Avo keeps watching her until she disappears behind the skyline.

Avo stares at the corpse, worthless now. 2000 florins which will not be his. But for some reason he doesn’t care much about that. There, alone in an alley with a dead arms dealer, paralyzed and powerless, humiliated and bested, Avo cannot help but smile. Perfectly he can recall the touch of her breath on his lips.

Selene…

What a woman.


End file.
